Pavlov's Dogs
by Eve Davidson
Summary: Craig falls alseep in class, season 2.


So tired, I could barely keep my eyes open. This wasn't good in school. I wished I was home in my room or on the couch, watching T.V. and dozing off. I could hear the steady hum of the heater, and the white noise of it just made me sleepier. My eyes closed, I couldn't keep them open, and my head gently dropped forward until my chin nearly rested on my chest.

"Craig!" I shot awake at my name, said in that terrible teacher tone. I could feel the adrenaline shooting through me, waking me up.

"Long night?" Mr. Simpson said, and I nodded, licking my lips. Every night was a long night.

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Why was I so tired? Last night was long, I guess you could describe it that way. I'd screwed up, broke another of my father's inscrutable rules. I knew it was coming. I knew what was coming. So I'd been late, so I didn't do the dishes, so my sneakers and coat were on the chair and in the middle of the floor, not put away like they were supposed to be.

"Craig," dad said, in his quiet way. His eyes narrowed. That was the cardinal sign. The narrowed eyes behind the thick black framed glasses. There was no where to go. No door or staircase could take me away. I was stuck in the room with him, the walls closing in. I tried to apologize, like I always did, stuttering through my nervousness, my heart racing. Pound, pound, it felt like it was about to beat right out of my chest. I wondered if it was possible to have a heart attack at 14.

"I'm, uh, I'm s-sorry, dad, I'm sorr-" Cut off in the middle of a word, and he came at me. I closed my eyes.

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"Craig, see me after class," Simpson said, and I nodded, groaning inside. I was screwing up here, too. I didn't want to see him after class, answer questions he didn't want to hear the answers to. For the rest of the class I paid attention, took notes, and wished I could have kept myself awake.

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I could hear dad's belt arc through the air. You can hear it. It cuts the air, and that sound means pain. I was like those animals in that old behavioral experiment, the one with the dogs and the food and the bell. Those dogs heard that bell and knew that food was coming. I hear that sound of the belt arcing in the air and I know pain is coming. Every muscle I have tenses up, and that kind of hurts, too.

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The bell rang, and everyone left, but I hung back. Mr. Simpson was at his desk, and I made my way over to him. When the last kid had drifted out he looked up at me.

"What's going on, Craig?" he said, looking at me with his mild blue eyes. I could see the freckles that covered his nose and cheeks. I took a shuddery breath. These were the moments where I could tell someone, and they were becoming more and more frequent. The concerned stare, the cautious questions, 'what's wrong?' But I couldn't tell. It was blocked behind my lips.

"Nothing," I said, and smiled like nothing was wrong. Like maybe I'd just stayed up late playing video games or something because I really was a normal kid. There was nothing to worry about.

"This isn't the first time you nearly fell asleep in class. Am I that boring?" he chuckled at his little joke, and I laughed, too.

"No. No. I just stayed up too late last night, that's all," I'd let him fill in the rest, video games or studying or being on the phone with some girl. Because so far I didn't lie. I did stay up too late, I just didn't say why.

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Sometimes I wondered what was worse, being hit with a belt or being thrown against a wall, or being punched and kicked. Dad would grab my wrists and squeeze, and pull me forward until our noses almost touched, and I could see the exact shade of his eyes behind his glasses, and I could feel his breath.

With the belt it would come down, and I'd stiffen up, and then it would come down again. Crack, the leather biting into my back, into my shoulders, into my legs. And when it did I was just filled with this hate, this red/black hate that filled every cell, and I could almost see it, this red haze of hating my father and hating myself.


End file.
